


This Shit is Weird - The Barely Readable Story of Inquisitor Melisande

by Jeishii



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, References to Depression, Tags Contain Spoilers, emotions are hard to deal with, leliana knows things, mage inquisitor, non-warrior inquisitor, relationship tags to be added as they are revealed, some references to Dragon Age: Origins and Dragon Age 2, this inquisitor has to learn how to fight and it's going to be a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 21:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9787952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeishii/pseuds/Jeishii
Summary: She fell out of the Fade. With the mage rebellion in full swing and a hole in the sky, Melisande has to try and figure out how to be what everyone else needs her to be, because she's not what they wanted - not a warrior, not even a support mage. An apothecary with a better understanding of poultices than she has of war.She has to learn to fight, learn to lead, and learn to let go of her fear.The heart of the Inquisition isn't the best place to do that.





	1. This Isn't Really a Prologue, but Let's Call it That

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure I set it up for her backstory to be somewhat obvious. Tags will be updated as the story is updated, as I have legit plans but do not want to spoil things.
> 
> Also - holy moly this first chapter is long. I'm so sorry.
> 
> First chapter covers what is more or less the opening of the game - the future chapters will reference events that happened, but will focus more on the "in-between" moments, Melisande's relationships, etc.

 

Ears covered by shaking hands, the ringing abating as the terror clawed through her body and soul, Melisande tried to walk forward and instead, collapsed to her knees. The ground beneath her appeared to be stone, hard and painful as it bit into her skin under her robes. It was too dark, even in the green haze. Her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths and she drug herself to her feet, body jerking, fighting her will. Or maybe her will was too fractured. The agony of the Fade - this was the Fade? - burning through her synapses made it so hard to think.

Skittering. She half-turned to see grotesque spider forms heading for her - “baby” fear demons, drawn to this place where fear made the Fade “air” thick and choking. Sobbing, she stumbled forward, looking ahead for the first time. Stairs - and above, in the distance, up the broken steps, a pillar of golden light.

Her hands scraped the rough stone steps as she climbed nearly on all fours. Her robes tangled her legs and she fell, chin coming into painful contact with the rough edge of the step before her. Screaming in agony - this agony! - she pushed herself up and stripped off the simple robes, down to her tunic and leather pants beneath. Feet freed, she half-ran, half-climbed the steps as the fear demons came closer. The higher she went the less like steps they became, the jagged surfaces barely offering purchase for her grasping fingers and slipping toes.

” _\--y ---nd”_ the pillar seemed to call. Melisande knew she shouldn’t go near it, her training had always said to avoid “things” in the Fade, but it called to her. “ _Take my hand!_ ”

She took it just as a fear-spider leapt for her.

That awful pulling sensation again - again? had she felt it before? - and the world shifted. There was still a green haze spotted by red chunks of rocks here. This felt different though - the pain of contact with the Fade had gone, replaced by a sudden sharp awareness of her body, the ache in her knees and chin, a searing pain in her left hand. The ringing in her ears had begun again. She could barely see through the grit in her eyes and smoke clouding the air - she could smell something like burnt pig meat. A fractured memory rose up with the smell, a kitchen servant crying as the head cook berated her for dropping a fatty chunk of pork roast into fire while Melisande was mixing a tea for the Divine. Realization that this smell was not from an animal turned the memory sour and she felt bile rise in her throat.

Too much, only a second had passed and this was too much to process.

She stumbled forward.

Ahead, men - men in armor and carrying swords. The green blaze around her dissipated, only a smoky greenish glow left surrounding her. She fell to her hands and knees. She thought she would be sick as pain shot through her left hand and arm.

Then, nothingness.

Blessed Maker, Andraste, Gods, whatever, _nothingness_.

              ---

She filtered in and out of consciousness. It seemed that both dreaming - _dreaming_? _-_ and consciousness were blurred. There seemed to be a constant presence there, but she couldn’t remember much about him. It was a him, this she knew - the voice closest to her was certainly male, though she wasn’t entirely sure what was being said. “Mark”, “breach”. Once, though, once she could have sworn she heard the Elven tongue - Dalish? Was this person a Dalish?

The presence was oddly comforting, though also deeply frightening.

When she fully woke, her hands were bound in wood and iron, and the presence was gone. She did little more than stare wide-eyed at the men and women who tried to interrogate her, but she had nothing to tell them. Their anger and fear showed in the threats they lobbed at her, the hateful snarls. They didn’t come too near her though - afraid of the mark, perhaps.

Over and over, she whispered “I don’t know” in her voice, hoarse and rusty. Broken in her pain.

As she knelt on the flagstones in what she figured was the dungeon, she waited. The guards around her threatened with swords, growled insults that were becoming bland with overuse. Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast was coming. The Right Hand of the Divine. Maybe even her Left Hand, the Spymaster, Sister Leliana. The Nightingale.

Melisande didn’t care. She stared down at the mark on her hand. It was disturbing, unnatural. The jagged mark with its green glow and pulses of light and energy. Even as she stared at it, it pulsated again.

It didn’t hurt as much now. Nothing hurt as much now, except for the crawling sensation of fear she was trying to suppress. It wouldn’t help.

Cassandra and Leliana both entered. The Seeker moved with a level of determination and rage that made Melisande shudder and sink into herself. The older woman circled her, coming up behind her. Melisande’s eyes squeezed shut.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

Melisande shook her head, unsure how to respond. A cacophony of negative emotions roiled through her, before blessedly subsiding, crashing and receding and leveling out, like the surface of a pond that had seen a large boulder dropped into the center. The ripples continued through her, shivering her skin, but the waters of her emotional state stilled. _It doesn’t matter_ , she thought to herself. _It really doesn’t. Even if she kills me now, it’s better than the way this feels._

Finally, she opened her eyes and looked resolutely up at Cassandra.

“Tell me why you should,” she responded.

This seemed to catch Cassandra off guard. The woman recovered quickly, grabbing her arm and yanking it up painfully, exposing her marked left hand.

“As if this is not evidence enough of your involvement in the destruction of the Conclave?” the Seeker hissed.

“I _do not know_ ,” Melisande spat back through gritted teeth. Cassandra released her arm and circled her, Leliana circling the opposite directions. “I don’t know what’s happened. I know there is something wrong. The guards have said there has been a disaster and blame me for it.” She clenched her left hand around another burst of energy from the mark on her palm, jaw clenched. “You act as if I should know what it is I did to deserve these threats and this hatred. But I don’t know. I _don’t_ _understand_.”

She knew her voice was small, weak, yet it carried her conviction in this tiny space.

Cassandra stared at her without response. Sister Leliana stepped forward to examine the restrained mage. The Orlesian considered her, expression neutral, face cast in the shadow of her hood, lit only by the occasional glow from Melisande’s clenched palm when the energy snapped outward.

“You are aware of what has happened to the Conclave, no?” she asked, eyes locked with Melisande’s. The girl shook her head and Leliana bowed her head slightly. “How can you not? You walked out of it - one of the only ones to walk out of the center. The _only_ one to step out of a Rift itself, alive and well - more or less.”

Melisande frowned. Jagged memories rose up inside of her mind, the green haze, the spiders. She shuddered again, harder, bent forward as she curled into herself.

“The Fade. There were spirits of fear there, they were chasing me,” she gasped, voice hoarse and ragged from lack of use and the distress choking her. “I can’t... remember clearly. There was light I think, and I was pulled back out. I don’t remember what happened after that, or how I got to the Fade. The...” She shook her head to try and dislodge the blackness eating at the edges of her vision. Fainting would not help. “The last thing I recall before that was helping to carry tea up to the Divine. I was with Templars. They’re...” She trailed off.

“They perished along with the Divine, as they were at the center of the explosion,” Cassandra snapped. Melisande sat up, staring at the Seeker, shock finally silencing the fear eating at her, replacing it with a cold nothingness. “Along with countless others who were within and around the Temple of Sacred Ashes when it happened.”

“All....” The young mage tried to bring her hands to her face, to cover her eyes, but the irons stopped her. She hadn’t felt tears roll down her face in so long.... “The other servants... the Tranquil and apprentice mages inside, the ones the Chantry took for service when the war started and we didn’t want to go with the rebels....” She curled forward again, bracing her self as best she could with the irons resting in her lap. “So many died in Kirkwall. Here, too? Why? I don’t understand. Why do you think I did it?”

Her voice broke with the last words and she looked up again, searching the Seeker and the Nightingale’s faces, looking for some shred of knowledge that would help her understand. The two women exchanged uneasy looks.

“You truly do not remember what happened within the Conclave?” Leliana asked finally. She knelt in front of Melisande. “I know your face, but I cannot place it. We have not been able to account for many of the mages that were left; what is your name?”

“Melisande.”

“You were in the service of the Divine?” Cassandra asked, her tone less hostile, more wary. She positioned herself just behind Leliana, gesturing at the guards. They sheathed their swords and left.

“Y-yes.. we... a few of us were apothecary apprentices at the Gallows, training with the Formari, but when ... when it happened, we.. were left behind. We were useless to the Rebellion because most of the Formari are Tranquil or poor mages who never passed their Harrowing for lack of power.” Melisande watched them closely.

Cassandra looked to Leliana, then pulled the woman to her feet and aside. They were conversing in low voices, Leliana’s melodic tones hushed and calm, Cassandra’s fervent. Melisande could pick out a few words, “sunburst”, “Tranquil”, “apothecary”. Questioning and direct. Leliana turned to her.

“Why were you carrying tea to the Divine?”

“When I was in Kirkwall I learned how to mix tea. It was sort of.. a side-hobby? A secondary job? She had learned of it and sampled a tea I mixed...” Melisande’s voice trailed off. “She was so gentle, and warm. Why would anyone... No, I suppose it doesn’t matter why.” Tears fell again. She blinked rapidly, trying to dislodge them from her long lashes. They were blurring her view of the two women before her. “I was the only one who came to work with the apothecary who knew how to brew it.” She shook her head dazedly. “The only reason I was there was to make tea for her.”

Seeker Pentaghast strode over to her, stared down at her for another moment. She sighed then, and turned to Leliana to tell her to go back to the forward camp.

“I’m taking you to the breach.”

  
“Breach?”

“I will show you.”

  ----

Melisande blinked, eyes burning from the harsh light, still adjusting to the midday sun. She had spent so long in darkness that the sunlight and eerie glow from the breach in the sky burned her eyes, leaving spots in her vision as she stumbled forward with Cassandra.

She learned of the breach, why they sought to blame her. Melisande was happy she couldn’t clearly see the faces of those around her. She imagined she could feel their hate, their need to find someone to blame.

When they fell from a damaged bridge, she somehow managed to roll and not break any bones as she hit the frozen lake below. When Cassandra surged forward to slay a demon, Melisande felt a prickling along the left side of her body. She turned her head and saw it. A simple apprentice’s staff, plain, smooth wood with a t-shaped top and a leather grip. Discarded, possibly belonging to one of the dead or injured mages they had passed. She trembled. Her left hand reached out.

The staff jumped, biting into her palm as it leapt to her grip as she called it. Power thrummed through her. She remembered some of the battlemage staff moves she had learned at the Gallows. Not all of them, but enough.

She was all too happy to drop the staff when commanded to, and had to fight to keep the fear and disappointment from her expression when Cassandra relented and told her to keep it.

It wasn’t as bad as she had remembered. Maybe it was because everything still felt unreal. Life couldn’t be this horrible. Painful.

And then she felt it again. That presence.

When they came upon the elf mage and the dwarf, even with a green, pulsating light full of jagged crystalline shapes floating in the air nearby, even as they dispatched demons that tumbled free of the Rift itself, she couldn’t stop looking at him. This was the source of that strange mix of feelings when she was unconscious after apparently waltzing out of the Fade and keeling over. That was how she was trying to look at it. Humor felt better than fear.

When he grabbed her arm and forced her to hold her hand to the Rift, she dropped her staff - being left-hand dominant was a disadvantage, it seemed. She tried to ignore the strange pulse she felt from contact with him. It was quickly replaced by a startling electric current running through her as power connected her to the Rift.

She wasn’t doing anything. Who was telling the power to do this? She was too intent on not passing out from the energy being pulled through her from the tips of her toes to the fingertips pointed at the glowing tear in the Veil to side-eye him, but she really wanted to look at that Elvhen mage.

Finally, the pulsing Rift gave a loud crack and closed.

It had been bizarrely intimate, his long fingers clasped around her wrist, the energy pouring out and through her under her skin. Could he feel it? The moment the Rift could close, she could feel it, and had clenched her fingers. His own hand had tightened around her wrist just a breath before.

She backed away from the man quickly, shaking her hand and then glaring at her palm as if it had utterly betrayed her. It kind of had, with that weird mark she didn’t give it permission to have and everything. Humor again. Yes, it would suffice to keep her sane. Maybe.

“Please, I - just - if anyone else is going to grab me please get it over with now. I am very much past my limit of processing what is happening right now, and unexpected physical contact is a very unwelcome shock.” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop. She grimaced, closing her eyes and sighing heavily. “I’m sorry. That was rude. That was just very... unpleasant. The power from the tear, I mean.”

Laughter. She turned her attention toward the dwarf, happy to not have to look at the Elvhen man who was looking at her with head cocked and a single brow raised. They were almost the same height, she and the Elf. The dwarf was shorter than her. Dwarves were good for making her feel taller, but their stocky stature just reminded her of how tiny she was. She hated it because the Templars had always been so hulking, so much bigger, even out of armor.

“You’re definitely not what I was expecting,” the dwarf chuckled in a pleasantly gravelly voice. Her voice just sounded hoarse in her ears, like she’d be screaming too long. His was like a manly purr. “I think you even shocked Chuckles here into silence.”

She frowned.

“An elf named Chuckles?” That got another laugh from the dwarf. The elf mage stepped closer, carefully distanced from her now.

“No. My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.” She finally looked at him and knew she was blushing, ashamed still of her outburst. “I apologize for grabbing you unexpectedly, but I theorized your mark would be able to close the Rift. I am glad to see I was right, though I apologize for making you feel uncomfortable. That said, I am happy to see you yet live.”

“Solas is an apostate who came to help with the breach. He also assisted in keeping you alive after you ... stepped out of the Fade,,” Cassandra stated, standing closer. She seemed concerned. Melisande realized she was still holding her left hand in the air, clenching and unclenching her fingers. Her staff was still on the ground and she crouched to retrieve it. “And this -“

“Varric Tethras,” the dwarf offered, bowing slightly. “Storyteller, rogue, and technical prisoner.”

“I told you that you could leave, Varric,” Cassandra corrected, voice lacking in humor. They argued briefly about the danger of the dwarf staying and fighting. Melisande leaned on her staff.

“I’m sorry, Solas,” she said softly. She felt suddenly trained. Worried looked weak, she straightened up and tried to look less reliant on the staff to keep herself standing. She figured she wasn’t fooling anyone. “I think I have only been fully conscious for less than a day, to find out the Temple is in ruins, many people I served with are dead, I was swallowed up and spat out by the Fade in equal measure, and everyone thinks I murdered the Divine even though all I wanted to do was make her tea. I’m a bit on edge. I ... am happy you were able to use the mark on my hand to close the Rift.”

“It was not I who closed the Rift,” Solas assured her. “That was entirely you and your mark.” She met his gaze. Intense eyes. It was definitely the same man, though now was an inopportune time to discuss it. She also carefully did not mention that she was certainly not the one guiding the energy to the Rift. “I believe you will also be the key to closing the breach in the sky.”

“I just want to help however I can.” She looked up at the breach, churning in the sky above, spitting things out at an alarming rate. “If I can close it, I want to do it. Now, if possible.”

“That is the plan,” Cassandra said, beginning to walk again, leading them. “We must meet up with Leliana at the forward camp, first.”

“If I may be so bold, what is your name, kid?” Varric asked good-naturedly.

“Melisande.”

“Melisande? Huh. Pretty. That sounds Orlesian,” the Dwarf mused. “But your accent seems a bit muddled - more Ferelden?” She ducked her head.

“I’ve lived in a few places. I’m told I was Ferelden at my earliest.” She kept her stride next to him, using the staff as a walking stick, staying clear of his crossbow. “Melisande was the name I was given when I was taken to the Circle.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I didn’t realize the Circle in Ferelden renamed the children they took on?”

“They don’t. I couldn’t talk. Was in shock, I guess. I never did find out what my name was.” She shrugged.”Sometimes children with magic awaken to it very young, and I guess I that happened to me. I don’t know for certain. It’s not an uncommon story from mages in the Circle to tell of being thrown out at a very young age. Sometimes, the minute there is even a hint of magic presenting itself, the Templars are called. The less kind families just throw their children to the elements rather than admit having a mage in the bloodline.

“I was found wandering with a small knife, a pack of food and the clothes on my back. The family who found me were originally from Orlais. They didn’t even realize I was a mage until I was spooked by a Mabari and shocked it.” She grinned and looked at the Dwarf, who was eyeing her with a quirked eyebrow. “I really **shocked** it I hear. Just the tiniest burst of a charge, not too different than if you run about on a scratchy carpet with stocking feet and try and touch someone.”

He laughed, and that made her laugh.

“I wish I could remember it. It sounds funny. It may not even be true but I want to think it is.” The smile parting her lips faded slightly. “Not a lot to remember that was that funny.” She ran a hand over her hair, braided in a fancy intricate hairstyle that Orlesian ladies liked to make their servants wear. Wisps had escaped, the fine hair beginning to tangle on itself. She made a face and pulled a strand of the coppery hair where she could see it, wanting badly to wash it.

“The Orlesian family called me Melisande and that is the name they gave the Templars when they came for me. As for my accent, it is probably muddled from living in Ferelden for a couple of years, then in Kirkwall at the Gallows; I was sent there fairly early. Listening to all those Free Marchers and their weird accents in my formative years.” She glanced sideways at him and caught him shoot her a look that was more amused than annoyed.

“Ah, a Kirkwall transplant! That’s actually where I’m from,” Varric told her with a grin. “Well met, kid.”

“Well met!” she responded, smiling brighter.

“For someone who refused to say anything but ‘I don’t know’ to her guards for the last day, you are surprisingly chatty,” Cassandra remarked dryly from several paces ahead.

“There is something to be said for friendly banter. Being told you are a murderer and should be hung, or better yet, made Tranquil and then burned for your crimes against the Chantry, sort of makes you feel less welcome.” Melisande regretted the response a bit when she saw Cassandra’s shoulders stiffen, her pace become more stilted.

“The guards were making such threats?” Cassandra stopped and turned to her, and where Melisande expected disbelief, she saw what seemed to be... compassion. “I did not know.”

The mage slowed her steps, relieved to be stopping. Her knees ached and she suspected they were bruised badly from - was it the Fade? When she fell out of the Rift? She forced the thoughts to the back of her mind.

“I didn’t understand it, but I can see where the hate and fear came from, now. Divine Justinia was someone that was well loved and respected, and what has happened is awful, even though I don’t understand what it **is** that happened,” Melisande confessed. She had to clear her throat a few times as her voice was becoming more ragged, her throat not used to so many words passing by her lips - her work with the Formari didn’t really require this much talking. “I wasn’t giving them the answers they wanted and they lashed out. They didn’t know who else to blame.”

Ahead, another small explosion as a demon hit the ground and rose up. Melisande pointed at it with her staff.

“They didn’t have any of these guys to take it out on, I guess.”

No one responded as they readied to fight, but she caught Varric’s eye as he stepped past her to hop up onto a crumpled wall, find footing, and launch a volley at the oncoming demons. He winked. She smiled.

Feeling wasn’t so bad, when the feelings weren’t painful.

The magic kind of burned, though. Maybe because she was so weak, and tired. Maybe because the energy balance inside of her felt wrong.

Once the demons were gone, dead or forced back to the Fade or whatever happened to them, the four of them kept going. She felt much less talkative now, finding herself weakened from the fight. She had remembered some spells, but was not practiced. She focused on erecting barriers. She could do that, still.

She caught Solas looking quizzically at her once, and she kept his gaze when their eyes met. It was a brief exchange, but there was a knowing there that she didn’t see from Varric or Cassandra. She frowned when he looked away to climb an embankment of the frozen river, wondering what it was he’d decided he knew.

She wasn’t sure she knew what there was to know, so filed the encounter away in her mind for later consideration. There were more pressing matters at hand, anyway.

When they finally reached the Temple of Sacred Ashes once again, after travel and bureaucrats picking fights and saving Leliana’s people from demons, she was not fully prepared for what she would see.

The burnt bodies, like statues crafted by a disturbed mind, that used to be people. She froze before a group of such husks, and gripped her staff with both hands shaking, knuckles white and cracking. Her head lowered, warm tears falling down her cheeks. The emotions were too intense. Everything was too raw. Someone called to her, telling her she needed to keep going. A gentle hand on her shoulder snapped her out of her stupor. She was surprised to find the hand belonged to Cassandra.

“Come. We can mourn after the breach has been sealed.” The words were an order, but her voice was gentle.

Swallowing, Melisande nodded and told her legs to move.

When a Pride demon emerged from the huge Rift at the center and attacked, she was forced to behave as the battle mage she was never trained to be. She wasn’t a warrior. She was never fully trained to use the spells that she fired off now, so they were unfocused. She tried to stay clear of the attacks, thought she would die when a large, clawed hand backhanded her like it was swatting a fly.

A hastily constructed Barrier spell prevented the worst of it. Shaking, she reached up toward the large Rift that connected to the breach and yelled - screamed - inside and out. The energy snapped and shocked; she could not close it yet but it exploded out in energy and stunned the demon that was tied to it. Surprised, she scanned the crowd of warriors, archers, and found Solas on the opposite side of the courtyard. He nodded - in approval, perhaps?

Cassandra and Solas attacked it in tandem, bolts of magic from his staff plasting it in the face while Cassandra aimed her cuts at its torso and legs as the demon knelt, still stunned. When it was back on its feet and the Rift had leveled back out, Melisande used it again. Stun the demon. The men attacked. Stun it. They attacked. Then it died.

Body shaking from effort, a trembling running through her that wouldn’t cease, she stood only meters away from teh pulsating Rift. Shuddering, she steeled her mind, and reached for the Rift again.

And willed it shut.

She screamed when the energy poured through her. It was too much. The flavor of this magic was familiar to her - she hadn’t tasted it in years and years, but could not place it. It was consuming her. She had to stop. She had to stop or she would die.

She closed her fist, the blast of the resulting pulse from the Rift throwing her back - and once again, she fell into blessed, dreamless darkness.

  -----

She was still alive. She wasn’t sure if that made her happy or not. Even so. after three days of silence and unconsciousness, she woke in a bed in Haven - not shackled, not in a healer’s cot - alive and whole. She woke feeling more calm than before, and somehow the sensation of unbalanced energy had abated. Melisande shifted under the duvet and raised her left hand to where she could see it. The mark remained, though it had not grown.

Slowly, carefully, she sat up. She expected to hurt all over, and was certainly sore, but not in pain. The room was warm, the fire lit and crackling cheerfully. The door opened and an Elvhen servant came in with a crate. She dropped it when she saw Melisande and fell to her knees, babbling about waking her and asking for her blessings. The obsequious behavior made Melisande uncomfortable and she drew the covers off and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She was wearing loose cotton sleep shirt and pants, better than just her smallclothes.

“Please stop,” she whispered. The Elf stopped talking immediately, forehead pressed to the floor. “Please don’t bow like that. I’m not nobility. I’m just a ... low class mage. Please don’t do that.”

The Elf girl raised her head slowly, looking confused at Melisande’s insistence.

“M’lady, you are -“

“Not remotely a m’lady. Please, truly. I don’t need or want anyone to bow to me. Do you - could you help me find some clothes?”

The Elf girl quickly assisted Melisande in dressing, though the mage protested (and then had to relent when she found herself a little too weak from bed rest to continue on her own). When finished the girl backed out quickly, excusing herself and insisting she would inform Cassandra that Melisande was awake.

Alone now, Melisande padded over to the standing mirror in the corner of the room. She stared at the girl in the silver surface.

She couldn’t remember how old she was, with a smooth face and unusually small stature, while the set of her eyes and mouth suggested years that may not have been particularly kind. She was younger than Seeker Pentaghast, for sure, and she had to be nearing 20 years, if not slightly above it. Her small frame and large eyes made it hard to tell, though. She had stopped growing at least 10 years ago, she surmised.

Those large eyes were too wide now, the nearly tawny golden brown faded, ghostly. There were smudges under her eyes, though she suspected she looked a little more alive in that moment than she had after she first woke up in the dungeon. The Elvhen servant had helped her brush out her hair, allowed to grow too long - well below her shoulder blades. The color had been so much more vibrant in her youth, but had faded to a dull, faded imitation of copper. Her skin had an olive complexion, though she had grown pale from too much time shut inside the Circle towers. The greenish hue of the veins in her wrists stood out starkly when she looked at her mark again, still pulsing and glowing.

She gently pulled her hair back, examining the scrape on her chin and a healing cut on the left side of her face from below her hairline to almost her jaw. It would leave the ghost of a scar. She ran her fingers lightly over her forehead, then down her face by the healing cut. It didn’t hurt much.

“I look like a shell,” she mused. “A tiny doll with faded paint.” Shaking her head and brushing away the thoughts, she pulled her hair into a right-hand part and quickly weaved three smaller plaits into the top layer of her hair from her crown down to the tips, then braided the rest with them. It was a bit sloppy, but it kept her hair out of her way, and she could pin it up if needed. She regretted not asking the servant to help her braid it in back instead.

She carefully pulled on the heavy leather coat that had been laid out for her. It was a little too big, hanging loosely on her narrow shoulders, but it would keep her warm. As she walked to the door, she found the staff she had used propped against the wall near the door frame. The young mage nearly left it, then shook her head at her own nervousness and reached for it, firmly taking it in her left hand. Her magic thrummed to meet the power of the staff’s enchantments. It felt better than three days prior, more stable, and much more comforting.

When she stepped out, the people milling about stopped and stared at her. They lined the road to the Chantry, and she wished they would walk away. She didn’t want them staring at her like that.

Eyes raised to the sky, she stared at the breach. It was still there, but nothing was pouring out of it. Walking quickly, she made her way to the Chantry, trying to smile at anyone who greeted or acknowledged her. She was surprised and oddly pleased to find both Cassandra and Leliana waiting for her.

When Chancellor Roderick attempted to have her arrested, Cassandra stopped him and dismissed the guards. Melisande’s eyes widened and she looked askance to Cassandra before her attention was drawn back to the Chantry clerk, who was protesting angrily.

“I don’t understand, I tried to close the breach. I know it’s still open - and I’m _sorry_ \- but I couldn’t keep fighting it. Why are you still wanting me arrested?” she asked him, left hand white-knuckled where she gripped the staff. Her voice was stronger than it had been before, though it was naturally low. A friend in the Circle had called it melodic once, long before, but much of the lilt had faded.

“You are still a suspect!” Chancellor Roderick snarled, before turning back to Cassandra and renewing his argument with her.

“She is most definitely not,” Cassandra retorted, turning her sharp gaze on the man. “I heard the voices in the Temple - the Divine called to her for aid.”

“There are many people who are better served by the Divine’s murder than this girl,” Leliana interjected smoothly. Her gaze was also fixed on Roderick.

“You’re suspecting _me?!_ ” His face and voice showed his alarm as he caught on to what their pointed looks were telling him. “How DARE you! The survivor - the woman who _walks away from the scene of the Most Holy’s murder_ \- is not a suspect, yet you place possible blame on loyal members of the Chantry itself?!”

“You and many others,” Leliana’s accented voice interjected, her hands clasped behind her back as she paced to Cassandra’s side. “We do not know who murdered the Most Holy, whether the died with her or remain at large, but the possibility of agents working against her that she did not suspect is too likely to ignore. Someone she trusted, or someone who gained access to the Conclave who should not. However, the Herald - this young mage - is the last person I suspect at this point.”

A tiny smile quirked the corner of Leliana’s mouth.

“For one thing,” the former bard mused, “I saw how she fights. She has power, but it is anything but focused. This girl is no killer. She is not even a warrior.”

Melisande blushed.

“I’m an apothecary, so... No offense taken.”

“None intended.” Leliana inclined her head toward the girl, and she found herself smiling back.

“This is outrageous!”

“Your insistence on blaming her is what is outrageous,” Cassandra snapped, making a rough and dismissive gesture with one hand. “You are clinging to your prejudice even when all signs point to her having been sent to us by divine providence, by the Maker himself, or by Andraste. You have heard the stories from the soldiers who found her - they saw a woman with her in the Fade. Enrobed in golden light!’

“Preposterous!”

It went south from there. The argument continued until Cassandra retrieved a large, unwieldy tome bearing the sunburst crest and dropped it onto the table. She declared the writ of the Divine herself, and the call for the Inquisition to begin. That the Divine herself had penned the missive, that it be used if the Conclave failed. And Melisande had to admit, it had failed rather spectacularly.

The debate ended with a nearly steaming Roderick storming out, and Leliana and Cassandra turning to the mage.

“We are starting with nothing. No leader, no allies, no Chantry support.” Leliana’s keen gaze locked onto Melisande’s. “We have only you and your mark, and the desperate hope that we can close the breach.”

“The Inquisition that became the Templars?” the mage asked. “You want to reform it, and you... want me to help you?” She looked at her hand, where it gripped the staff. “All I have is this mark. Leliana isn’t wrong... I’m no battle mage.”

“You can learn,” the Seeker coaxed, earnest as she came around the table to stand nearer to Melisande. “We have some mages here. Solas is here. We can ask him to teach you. Your mark and ability to close the Rifts is the only key we have to closing the breach itself.” She placed a hand on the Writ of the Divine, almost reverently. “I know you are frightened. However, I believe the Maker sent you to us. Whether Andraste herself sent you to us remains to be seen, but I do believe you are here for a reason. I believe that your purpose is clear - help us form the Inquisition, and help us close the breach.

“We cannot do this without you.” The Seeker and the Nightingale stared at her. Cassandra’s gaze was firm, but imploring. Leliana watched with an almost stony, emotionless gaze.

Sighing and breaking eye contact, her head turned to stare at the huge book sitting on that table, Melisande nodded.

“I have nowhere else to go, nothing else I can really be,” she said softly. “I will stand with you. I want to close the tear in the sky - if for no other reason, maybe that is the key to getting rid of this mark.” She smiled and peeked up at them both. “Besides, I’d never survive if I tried to wander off on my own. I need to learn how to ... fight.”

And control her magic.

Of everything - demons running free, holes torn into the sky, scary Seekers and Chantry assassins, angry and frightened townsfolk - the magic was the scariest part. She didn’t have much of a choice at that point.

And so it was that the story of Melisande, who would rise as the Inquisitor, began.

(Varric would make sure to flavor it up considerably later and try to hide how awful she was at ... well... pretty much **everything**.)


	2. Learning How To Be Something You’re Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melisande is faced with the unpleasant prospect of having to learn offensive magic, as she is no longer in a position to avoid battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, this is like 11 pages of just examining Meli's interactions with Varric and Solas, her mentality toward and specific abilities in magic, and her finally starting to step up and make decisions.

The fledgling Inquisition had a lot to do. Melisande was grateful, in a way, that she didn’t have to do much of it. She helped the apothecary make potions and poultices, and was able to find a recipe for better potions for him. He liked her because she was helpful and skilled. The work was calming because it was familiar.

Varric was the easiest person to get along with, Josephine coming in closely after him. People had started calling her the Herald of Andraste, and she wasn’t sure she was okay with that. When she mentioned this to Varric, he laughed.

“I’ve met my fair share of heroes, kid. You don’t quite fit the same profile as them, but your story has all the trappings of one of the legends of old.” He gestured to her hand. “Walks out of the Fade with a glowing mark on her hand, a figure some people think is Andraste seen behind her, and stops the Breach from growing? Whether you like it or not, people like me are going to be writing stories about you.”

She pouted a little, shifting to lessen the growing ache in her rear from sitting too long on a crate. They were in Haven, sitting at the campfire outside of the tents Varric hung around. One of them, she assumed, was his. She hadn’t asked because it seemed the question could be taken the wrong way.

“I don’t think I’m going to get used to the attention though,” she replied, aware she was complaining but feeling just petulant enough to do so. A log on the fire popped and she jumped. She looked across the flames at the dwarf once she had calmed her quickly beating heart. “Can I ask you a silly question?”

“You just did.”

“Ha ha. Why do you call me ‘kid’?”

He shrugged, and she watched the gold chain around his neck glimmer in the firelight. 

“You’re definitely no ‘old lady’. And, I dunno, you just have a sort of childish quality to you.” He held up his hands as if to placate her when she tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “Don’t get me wrong - you don’t seem  _ immature _ . You’re handling things pretty well, all things considered - except for you, know, avoiding Solas.”

”Ah. You noticed.”

“Kid,  _ everyone _ ’s noticed. Are you that worried about learning some more advanced and violent spells?” He crossed his arms, gaze unwavering. She looked away from him, embarrassed by her nervousness. “Look, you told me a couple days ago you didn’t have this much magic before. The mark could be changing how you interact whit the Fade, or whatever it is you mages do. You need to learn to control it. Being afraid is okay - but I’ve seen what mages can do when they lose control. You’ve seen it too. You’ve been to the Hinterlands with me and Cassandra.”

She hung her head for a moment, processing the flurry of emotions trying to claw out of her heart and into her psyche, her hand clenching on the hem of her heavy leather coat. Once they stilled, she looked back up at him and nodded.

“That is why I call you ‘kid’,” he circled back to the original topic. “You’re old enough to know better than to run from your problems, but still immature enough to think you can do it.” He scratched his head when she gave him as deadpan a look as she could muster. “Alright, and Melisande is kind of a mouthful.”

She laughed at that. “I had a friend who called me Meli, if that’s easier.” Her eyes grew unfocused as her memory flitted backwards against her will. She had been a Dalish girl, pushed out of her clan because they had too many mages. The girl’s piercing scream when the Templar - 

“Huh, Meli, was it?” Varric contemplated while rubbing a hand over the fine stubble on his chin. “Definitely a lot easier to say. I can call you Meli from now on if you don’t mind. Though I’m not going to stop calling you kid when the mood strikes me. Who knows, maybe I’ll come up with something even better later.”

“Meli” cleared her throat, burning from the bile that had bitten into her esophagus from the unwanted memory. Latching onto the topic of names, she asked, “I’ve heard you use nicknames for others - like, Solas, you called him Chuckles a few times. Are you prone to giving people weird nicknames?”

“Only when the mood strikes. Speaking of...” He waved at someone behind Meli.

She had managed to avoid the inevitable for the last week, but her luck had run out.

“Melisande,” Solas’ voice greeted her. She turned pleading eyes to Varric, who covered his grin with his hand and excused himself, muttering something about needing to see if he could requisition a new string for Bianca. The younger mage twisted on her crate and looked behind her. Solas looked less than amused, and was clearly dressed to leave the safety of camp. “I’m glad I found you.” He didn’t sound glad. “Come. Let us fetch your gear - we’re going to move a bit away from Haven and practice. You’re well past due.”

Slowly, she stood, stretching her legs by standing tip-toe. She balanced herself by digging the butt of her staff into the earth near the fire, then rocked back onto her heels.

“As you wish. Harrit said the gear they made for me is ready, so if we could swing by there, I can pick it up from him, then we can go.” She fought to keep her voice neutral and steady. She failed, and found herself unable to look directly at him as her cheeks burned. 

As they walked down the slope to the outer gate and hung left, there was tension in the silence between them. The din from the former Templars training behind them made her skin prickle.

The gear she was handed fit quite a bit better, settling nicely over the tunic and leggings she’d been able to scrounge up. The coat wasn’t loose at her shoulders the way the last one had been and was made with materials resistant to both fire and spirit-based magic attacks. A cowl that would protect her face from both weather and fireballs was attached to the collar of the jacket, which hit her mid-thigh. This was gear better suited to an apprentice mage, for sure.

She followed dutifully behind Solas, eyeballing his bald head. That uneasy energy she had felt from him since he had kept her alive those first few days was still there, turned sour from his obvious displeasure with her. Varric was, unfortunately, right - she  _ was _ being immature by avoiding this, and in doing so had avoided Solas entirely. It was not him that she was afraid of. 

A sinking feeling settled into her gut. She shouldn’t have avoided him for so long. He was doing this to help her, and she was being ungrateful by trying to avoid the lessons. The finer points of relationships with other people had escaped her. She realized she could have very well offended or angered him - showing him such disregard after he had essentially saved her from what would have been a likely death, consumed by the mark on her hand, or worse.

“I’ve been kind of an idiot,” she said to his back. He turned his head slightly to show he was listening, but did not stop walking the path away from Haven, nor did he respond. “I realize that avoiding you made it seem like I was avoiding, well...  _ you _ . I wasn’t. I’m afraid of using magic. The fact that I wasn’t really a full apprentice mage, even at my age, is probably enough to show that.”

She sighed, fidgeting with the hood on her leather coat so it would lay flat on her shoulders and back. 

“I know that is a poor excuse for my rudeness, and I’m very sorry. I seem to have set myself up for being rude to you a lot, and that isn’t acceptable,” Meli admitted.

He finally stopped and turned to her, leaning on his own staff. His eyes, slightly deep-set, were cast in shadow as he regarded her.

“What has lead to your fear of magic, then?” he asked. Some of the tension between them seemed to drain away with his question. “You started out in the Circle Tower of Ferelden, yes? You appear to be too young to have been there during the events of the Fifth Blight.” During the Blight, the tower had become overrun with demons, she had come to understand. She shook her head.

“I was found and sent there after the Blight. I left Ferelden when was I was around ten, I think. It was slight overcrowding - it takes time to rebuild a tower like that. There just wasn’t room enough in the dormitories, so some of the younger initiates were sent to other towers.” She ran her right hand over her left, mimicking his stance unconsciously.

“You were weak in magic, so you had stated previously. Did you witness another’s abuses of it?”

She hesitated, then shook her head again. When he didn’t respond, but simply waited for her answer, she fidgeted.

“I wasn’t lying when I told Varric I had little magic as a child,” her face and voice were expressionless. “It came when I was a little older, as it often does. It wasn’t explosive fireballs or lightning from the sky that heralded the coming of my magic.” She looked away, off into the trees. “You’re aware that sometimes, you just realize that when you dream, you’re not really dreaming. You’re in the Fade.”

“You showed signs of being a Somniari - a Dreamer?” he asked, his interest clearly piqued. She smiled and knew it was bitter. His voice was gently reproachful. “You were afraid of the spirits you met in the Fade?” She turned her head to face him again, the smile gone.

“Not at all.”

A silence stretched between them. He processed that for a moment, head tilted slightly. His patience was rewarded when she shrugged and continued.

“I wasn’t, but you can imagine my instructors were. I... I don’t really want to go into all of it.” She swallowed, grimacing as tears started to blur her vision. The anguish that ran through her was alarming in its sudden intensity. “Just know that the Gallows is not a place for a mage who spends too much time talking to spirits and doesn’t have enough control over their spells.” She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing some of the tears out. She brushed them away before they could freeze to her skin. “I saw what happens to mages when they don’t fit into the Circle’s designs for them. I grew so fearful of my own magic.... I guess my growth as a mage stunted.”

She shook her head and wiggled her staff.

“I barely remember how to use one of these, as you saw.” She laughed, the sound lacking in mirth or warmth. “The thought of trying to relearn... or, learn for the first time, any sort of offensive magic shakes me to my core.”

He gestured that they continue walking, and she kept pace next to him. He was silent for a while, then began speaking. His tone was gentle, though firm. He sounded like an instructor, though she figured that he was, now. For her, anyway.

“I understand fearing your power,” Solas began, “You were raised in an environment that tells you magic is something to be quelled and controlled. You have the potential to walk the Fade, as a Dreamer; I can show you how to use this ability, and to do so safely. Without a constant fear of possession.” She looked up at him and he smiled at the cautious interested in her expression. “The more difficult task is the offensive magic, for certain.

“Fear will make this more difficult. You will need to learn to channel your fear, or overwhelm it with different emotions when you fight.” They reached an open field, covered in snow. He held up one hand. “Let us begin with some of the simpler elemental spells, and find where your affinities stand. We can build on your strong connection to the Fade, and use that to your advantage.”

Their first lesson lasted for well over two hours. The sun had crawled quite a distance through the sky. It went well enough, except for when she nearly caught him on fire. He asked that she avoid fire-based spells for the time being.

The Spirit school seemed to be what called to her most closely, with ice magic being the next in order of ease to control. She found her emotions were connected to her spells. It was easy enough to imagine the stoic emptiness that she related to the cold, and there was inspiration around them in spades. The spirit magic pulled at her sense of wonder and freedom she had found in the last week, bound as she was to Haven and the Inquisition. She had no Templars lurking over her, no wary instructors, and the ability to roam Haven and the surrounding area at her whim. It was a lovely change from the Gallows and even the Chantry service.

Before they returned to Haven, she had learned that using the spell Fade Step was surprisingly easy for her - almost second nature. Even if she was unable to fight as effectively as she would have liked, she had the means to essentially side-step danger. That alone gave her considerably more confidence in her ability to learn.

By the time she crawled into her bed that night, sore and chilled, aching inside and out, she had hoped she was too tired to dream. When she found herself standing in a representation of Haven inside of the Fade, she cursed out loud, a colorful string of words in various languages she had picked up from listening to the mix of soldiers forming the Inquisition’s forces. And Josephine, when she thought no one could hear her. Antivan curses were delightful.

“That was actually rather impressive.”

She wasn’t really surprised to find Solas standing nearby, smirking at her. Chagrined, yes, but not surprised.

“If you could waltz into my dreams, why didn’t you do so sooner?” she asked him, running her hands over the loose braid hanging over her left shoulder (even in the Fade). His Fade form was exactly himself - and she wondered suddenly if she looked the same in the Fade as she did in the physical world as well. What she could see of herself, her hands and her braid and her torso and legs, looked right enough.

“It is not as simple as that, to be fair,” Solas replied, walking toward her with hands clasped behind his back. He surveyed this Haven - midday, bright, beautiful, and lacking in the breach in the sky. “You had to come to accept this part of yourself. At least enough to let you enter the Fade with your guard lowered a bit.”

Meli blinked, looking at him curiously.

“I let my guard down because we talked about my Fade-roving as a child?” she asked, crossing her arms. “That seems counter-productive. And like a very bad idea.”

“You are safe here, Melisande.”

“You can call me Meli, you know,” she interjected, then blushed - if your spirit can blush in the Fade? - when he quirked an eyebrow at her. She waved a hand. “I mean... Varric and I were talking about how my name is kind of a.. never mind.”

“You are safe here,  _ Meli. _ ” He gestured grandly, taking in the scape in the Fade. “The Spirits here have fled the breach rather than be torn through into our world.”

She frowned, chewing softly on her lower lip - or, on her Fade self’s lower lip? He was right, of course; she didn’t see or even sense another spirit. But his energy was palpable - she had a much stronger sense of it here.

“Is it strange that I’m disappointed?” she asked suddenly. When she glanced over at him, he was looking at her. She thought back to the knowing look he had given her when they were heading to try and seal the breach. “Is there something wrong? You were looking at me sort of oddly when we met, too.”

He didn’t answer her at first and instead turned his eyes up at the breachless sky. She waited, looking at him with head tilted. He was vastly different from any city elf or Dalish she had met in her years, of what she could recall, and comported himself in a way that seemed to dance the line between arrogant and confident. His energy was so different from everyone else, especially in the Fade. A low pulsation, almost a heartbeat, seemed to radiate out from him.

“Do you want to know why I believe it is so imperative to make you undergo training even though you are afraid?” he asked her gently. Coldness washed over her as her heartbeat quickened. He turned to her, his face serious, eyes on hers. “Why it is vital that you face your fear?”

“Because mages can become abominations if they let their fear rule them?” she asked softly, knowing that wasn’t the answer. His expression was not unkind, yet he was not backing down. Those eyes bored into her. She turned her face away. “I don’t know.”

“Then when you are able to answer that question yourself, ask me again.” He was smiling when she looked back at him, a sort of teasing smirk. She blinked rapidly, confusion washing over her replaced rapidly by what she could only describe as consternation. “Your secrets are yet yours, and though I am admittedly curious, I will not press you for information you have not wished to share - unless it becomes pertinent to do so. You need to face the fear you have inside of you at some point, though - and learn to control it. It will be difficult to control your magic if you don’t.”

The younger mage walked closer to him, searching his gaze. There wasn’t a sense of any patronizing intent to his words, but that smirk was still there.

She wanted to cover his mouth and hide that smirk, the roiling anxiety in her stomach setting her skin to prickle. She felt heat as small flames popped up randomly around them before dissipating. She wanted to know what he thought he knew, and that was his game, she realized - to encourage her to offer the information on her own, and she would not be likely to know what he did and did not already figure for himself.

Meli finally sighed and rocked back on her heels, hugging herself and smiling ruefully up at him.

“Okay, Mr. I-Will-Answer-Your-Quesitons-With-Questions.”

“Only on this matter.”

She laughed and shook her head. The image of Haven around them began to waver and she squinted at a nearby boulder as it seemed to wriggle like a gelatin mold.

“I think I’m waking up.”

And she did. She blinked up at the ceiling in the dark of her room. The fire had died down and the room had begun to chill. She’d stirred in response. Rolling onto her side, she blinked blearily at the fire. She didn’t want to get out of bed, exhausted as she yet was.

Eyes sliding shut, she whispered an old word for fire, and it roared to life. Startled, she sat up, throwing off the covers. She nearly fell as her legs tangled with the blankets but managed to get over to the fireplace. She clenched her teeth and thought of the stillness of the winter air outside, and drained the errant magic from the flames. They flickered and dimmed, the fire going out entirely, leaving only gently glowing embers in the fireplace.

Hands shaking, Meli added a new log and some tinder, blowing gently on the dried grass until it caught on the embers. She spent some time slowly building the fire back up until the fresh log was being slowly and steadily consumed.

Shuddering, she slowly pushed herself from her kneeling position to standing. Even more drained than she had been when she had laid her head down the first time that night, when she fell asleep again after collapsing atop the lumpy mattress, she fell into a dreamless - and Fadeless - sleep.

The following day was eventful. A handful of couriers and ravens arrived with messages, and Melisande was called to speak with the inner circle. The meeting comprised of Leliana, Cassandra, Cullen, and Josephine. She fidgeted as they spoke of things that floated aimlessly above her head, unfamiliar topics like strategies, trade, diplomacy with the nobles. She found herself staring intendedly at a dagger Cullen had used to mark a spot on the map in the Hinterlands. It was a tiny fist and she was trying to figure out why - 

“Did you even hear any of that?”

Meli jumped as Cassandra’s voice cut into her concentration. Cheeks flushed, she looked up at the older woman.

“Things are getting more complicated with the Nobility. Josephine said that we need to go to Val Royeux next to talk to the Chantry, try to get them on our side, and that I should meet with them,” Meli responded quickly. Satisfied, Cassandra leaned back and rested her hip against the war table. “Mother Giselle has been saying this since I met with her - and I agree.”

“I disagree,” Cullen protested, drawing a glare from Melisande. He held up a hand in placation. “I simply do not agree with lending credence to their concerns by meeting with them. We are separate from them now - their approval is not necessary. You’re also... still ...”

“I don’t need to be able to fight off the clerics, Cullen,” Meli snapped. He raised his eyebrows and met her gaze. Leliana interrupted the staring contest to side with Cullen, questioning the safety of sending the Herald to meet the Chantry.

“I will go with her,” Cassandra insisted. “We could feasibly take another person with us as body guards for the Herald - Solas or Varric. This  ** needs ** to be done. There must be members of the Chantry who can be reasoned with, and Mother Giselle has given us her list of those Clerics who side with us - or are still unsure.” Cassandra pushed away from the war table as if to march straight to Val Royeux that very moment. She was practically thrumming with barely restrained energy, her frustration clear in the set of her eyes and jaw. 

As Meli had spent more and more time with her, she was finding Cassandra to be a surprisingly complex, layered individual. She had come to quietly admire the woman’s strength and convictions - even if she did not always agree with the Navarran.

“I want to go,” Melisande confirmed, trying to straighten her spine. Josephine was teaching her how to improve her body language, using her posture to try and appear taller. She had even insisted on Meli wearing boots with subtly tall heels and thicker soles to try and reduce her youthful appearance, against the mage’s protest. “I want to try and change their view of me from heretical survivor and possible perpetrator to, if nothing else, well-meaning servant to the Chantry.”

“This would be a waste of time,” Leliana retorted, eyes narrowed and hand gesturing in dismissal. “There is so much more -“

“It’s three against two in favor of us going,” Meli interrupted cheerfully, knocking the butt of her staff into the flagstones beneath her with a sharp crack. “Decision made.”

Cullen and Leliana exchanged looks while Josephine hid a smile behind her hand. Cassandra shook her head, but didn’t say anything, since Leliana had given up arguing.

Melisande was relieved - arguing with either the Spymaster or the former Knight Captain was not something she felt qualified to do.

When she collapsed into bed that night, she played over the plans that had been laid out in her head. She would own the title Herald of Andraste, if that meant helping her comrades run the Inquisition. If it meant getting the resources needed to figure out how to close the Breach. She wasn’t a leader and certainly was no Herald - but she had gotten used to pretending to be something she wasn’t.

She just fretted over how quickly her mask would be torn away, and what would happen when the truth was exposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going forward, the chapters will be windows into how Meli meets her companions and how things flesh out for her during some key events. Otherwise, this would be a really long boring retelling of the game.
> 
> GEE SOLAS I WONDER WHAT YER THINKING

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Melisande is a French and German name. It has dual meanings, one of which is "determination". This is the meaning I hope to convey through Melisande as she comes into her own.
> 
> Don't worry, Varric will give her a nickname in the next chapter, and you won't have to read her eyeful of a name over and over again... :)


End file.
